


From Here On It's Instinctual

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [18]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4757249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In simple terms: three times the Hawkeyes shared a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Here On It's Instinctual

**Author's Note:**

> So because I'm a dumbass and forgot to sign up for my own challenge until all spots were taken, and because tielan would've been the 11th spot out of ten, we decided to go ahead and just prompt each other instead. Hah! Our very own game of tag. She gave the first one, and it was, _a friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and gently allows you to grow_. Which I considered several perfectly platonic MCU ficlets for, but then I ran into reblogged Hawkeyes art on my dash and this happened instead. Whoops? 
> 
> Also, this is borderline fluffy by my standards and super self-indulgent, so, uh, your call whether you'd consider that a warning or an enticement. :P 
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "A Crow Left Of The Murder" by Incubus.

Kate wakes to the sound of her ring tone echoing through the apartment. A quick glance to the clock tells her it's roughly 4 AM, another at the display of her phone informs her Clint's the one calling. She sits up and sighs, just in time for the ring tone to end. A text message follows right on its heels, asking her to come over to his place. She sends a forlorn glance towards her bed – warm and fluffy, and the sheets are only on it for the second night, still smelling like flowery detergent – and swings her legs over the edge. 

Futzing Barton. 

 

***

 

See, it's far from the first time he calls her late at night – or early in the morning, she supposes that's a matter of the individual point of view – but usually it involves bad guys and arrows. Not... Uh, this. 

Clint is curled up on his couch, legs drawn up to his body, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and no socks. He squints into her general direction out of heavy eyelids, blinks as if to bring her into focus. “I don't feel so right.” 

She surveys the mess he made of the living room area, and a cursory glance over to the kitchen has her zeroing on the bottle of whiskey that sits on the counter. There's barely a fourth of the contents left. Her own stomach churns with worry, and she can't decide whether she's furious he let it come to this or relieved that his sense of self-preservation is still functional enough to make him call her. “Did you drink _all_ of that? Alone?” 

“Yuuuup,” he says with a dopey grin, but looks away when their eyes meet. Good. At least he knows he fucked up. 

Kate sits down next to him, pulls at the sleeve of his t-shirts until he gets the hint and lowers himself down so his head rests in her lap. She resists the urge to smooth out his hair; she's not his fucking _mother_. “Then it's no wonder. Why would you do that?” 

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says, muffled, because he's burrowing into her and basically talking against her abdomen. She can feel his breath through the fabric of her shirt, glad she's not close enough to catch a whiff. 

She stabs a finger into the flesh of his shoulder to get his attention, does it again when he merely groans. “You know what, from here on in, whenever you think something is a good idea?”

Clint, seemingly sensing that he'll only get himself into bigger trouble if he ignores her now, turns and blinks up at her. “Hmm?”

“You should do the exact opposite,” she finishes, and he attempts a grin again – although this one at least looks appropriately contrite – and mock-salutes. Kate allows him another couple of minutes to catch his bearings, then she jiggles her leg and heaves him back into a sitting position. “It's ass-o-clock in the morning, and if you're thinking I'll sit here until sun-up playing pillow, you're mistaken. C'mon, Hawkeye. Let's get you to bed.” 

He grumbles and yawns, but he obeys, stands up and trots upstairs ahead of her. Once there, he sheds his jeans and t-shirt and crawls into bed, holding up one corner of the sheets and raising his eyebrows. Kate considers for a moment, then figures what the hell, it'll be light out by the time she'd get back to her place and sleeping on Clint's couch gives her backaches that last for days. Give him a few minutes and he'll be fast asleep, and he'll likely be out until at least noon. She gets into bed beside him and switches off the bedside lamp. 

 

***

 

This time around, Kate wakes up with an armful of Hawkeye, Clint clinging to her like a baby monkey to his mama, snoring faintly. He's also cutting off the circulation in her left forearm, and so she nudges him to get him to back off, which results in a disapproving moan and a shove. Kate shoves back, and finally he does move, but not without leaning in and pressing his mouth to hers, eyes still closed, very briefly. Then he rolls onto his back and keeps on snoring as if nothing happened. 

Kate lies frozen in place, the uncomfortable tingle in her arm forgotten. She touches her lips, sits up, stares at him. It's possible he mistook her; he's been married for years. He's had girlfriends. Maybe it's simple habit, an automatic response to waking up cuddling someone. It doesn't have to mean anything. 

She's trying to figure whether she _wants_ it to mean something, but quickly decides that's not going to happen without a shower and at least three cups of coffee. With one last glance at Clint's once more limp form, she gets up, leaves him to sleep it off by himself while she sets onto opening Pandora’s Box and examining the contents. She doesn't get very far with that, her train of thought halted by the still-open whiskey bottle on the kitchen counter. 

Kate does love him. He's her partner, her best friend, her other half. If she was just a tad more sappy in nature, she'd call him her soulmate. But she's got too much self-respect to tie herself romantically to someone who drinks himself into a stupor all by himself and then calls his friends to escort him into bed. It's not like she doesn't get it, Grills only just died and the tracksuits are closing in, but... nope. She sweeps the bottle off the counter, screws the cap on and stores it in the cupboard that doubles as his liquor cabinet. She feeds Lucky and refills his water dish, then takes him for walk. Clint's still asleep by the time she gets back, and she doesn't wait for him to wake up before she takes a cab back to her apartment. 

 

***

 

In the whirlwind that follows – Kate's escape to LA, Clint almost getting himself killed, their standoff with the Russian mob and the cleanup after – there isn't really much room left to think about possibly meaningless, sleep-drowsy kisses. It doesn't matter, she figures. She’s trying not to think about whether there’s some _in love_ mixed into the love she undeniably feels for him. Clint is working on getting his shit together; she doesn’t think she’s seen a bottle of anything lying around in his apartment in months either. Kate doesn't take Pandora’s Box off the shelf again. They’ve got a good thing going. No sense in messing with that.

 

***

 

At some point, Kate kinda got used to SHIELD showing up out of the blue and snatching Clint away – it has happened enough times – but getting napped right alongside him is still new. Besides, would it really kill them to, like, knock on the door for a change? Or call ahead? Give people time to pack a few necessities and shower? No use bitching about that now, though, as she’s sitting in the gut of a plane with Clint and actively avoiding to ponder how and when SHIELD managed to stash a backup of her uniform.

They’re politely turned away from each other as they change, although it’s not like they haven’t seen each other in their underwear before. But Kate has been more adamant about boundaries since the kiss, and although she’s still pretty sure that Clint doesn’t remember, he’s sensitive enough to have picked up on the lines she drew. And one of them, yes, is to avoid glimpses at the abs whenever possible.

 

***

 

A couple hours later, Kate hobbles into a safehouse somewhere in rural Turkey on Clint’s arm, one hand pressed to the gash in her side, and listens to him swear a blue streak on her behalf. She’s feeling a little bit lightheaded and doesn’t pay too much attention to the exact wording, but if she’s not completely mistaken he’s currently coming up with some rather colorful choice insults to curse Maria Hill’s lineage for generations to come.

She groans as he repositions her to open the door, then again to throw it shut with his hip, and he buries his face in her hair, mumbling apologizes. Any other time, that’d be another line in the sand, but right now Kate’s hurting and the blood loss is getting to her and he’s just so warm and solid and all she wants his to have him close until she’s all better, whenever that might be. That’s why she whines low in her throat and grips his arm harder when he deposits her on the bare mattress in the small bedroom and rises to his feet, away from her.

“Don’t go,” she says, hardly recognizing her own voice. “Stay here with me. Please.”

Clint bends down to kiss the top of her head. “Just a sec, Katie. Getting water and a sewing kit from the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

Ah, yes. Stiches. Kate bravely grits her teeth through the first four, but after that, the dirty walls of the safehouse blur and the world fades to black.

 

***

 

Kate floats back to consciousness cocooned by a wealth of old, scratchy blankets, with Clint’s body heat seeping into her back, her head pillowed on his forearm. He’s wrapped himself around her, the other arm slung over her shoulder, mindful of the wound lower down on her side. She takes a few second to listen to the sound of his breathing, determines that he’s awake.

“Hey,” she says, a little bit freaked out by how rough her voice still sounds. He immediately shifts, but she puts her hand on top of his, squeezes it. “No, no. It’s fine.” To demonstrate how very much she doesn’t mind his proximity right here and now, she slots her body even tighter into his and laces their fingers together. “Don’t you dare move away.”

“I thought you’d, I don’t know, gotten uncomfortable with the whole touchy-feely business,” he says, and Kate’s suddenly glad she can’t see his face. It’s been a safety measure, implemented to protect herself from having to examine their relationship, and she doesn’t regret it, but…

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

He huffs, and yeah, no wonder he didn’t buy that. “Then what changed?”

Kate sighs, tempted to use her injury as a front, whine and moan a bit so he’ll let the topic rest, but that wouldn’t be fair. He’d keep thinking about this. It would fester and grow. Time to face the music and tell him the truth. “You kissed me. That night you dug out the whiskey and called me in the middle of the night, and I stayed over. When you woke up, you kissed me. Then you fell back asleep and never mentioned it again. And I don’t know what to do with that.” 

“Oh wow.” He’s silent for a long moment, and she can feel his chest contract as he takes in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – “

“I figured you didn’t,” she interrupts. It’s slightly strange and yet oddly fitting that they’re having this conversation while pressed close together, back to chest, not a hand’s breath of space between them. But she’s also injured, lost a fair amount of blood, and there’s only so much of the deep and meaningfuls she can stomach under these conditions. “Hence me not saying anything about it. Let’s leave it at that?”

He draws his legs in, thereby wrapping himself yet more thoroughly around her body. “Okay. You should try and sleep for a bit. SHIELD’s gonna take another hour, at least, before they can get us home.”

 

***

 

Kate expects things between them to get more awkward after that. Something's out there, neither of them knows what it is or how the other feels about it, and by any sane person's standard, it should be super weird. But here's the thing; Hawkeyes rarely adhere to expected behavior. Nothing really changes, and Kate's grateful. 

A couple weeks after the safehouse, they're at Teddy's 20th birthday. They went together, because at this point no one expects them to show up to such events solo anymore anyway and also, Kate's in charge of bringing the booze, which grants her certain liberties. 

Roundabout an hour and five to seven tequila shots per guest later, Kate's at the bar, lining up the next lemon-glass-salt combo with America and Cassie when she detects Clint across the room, leaning against Teddy's desk and looking with unprecedented intensity. She's nods at him, raises her glass, downs her shot while he sips from the umbrella-crowned affair he's nursing in abstinence of the hard liquor. She directs her attention back to her friends, only to look back at him mere minutes later and find him still staring. He gives her a lopsided smile that's actually kinda cute, and Kate smiles back, and a couple of minutes later they're doing it again. The penny takes awhile to drop, but eventually Kate realizes that this is what it looks like when Clint's trying to flirt. He's flirting. With her. 

The next time their eyes meet, Kate bats her eyelashes and tucks a wayward lock of hair beneath her ear to test her theory, and she's both gratified and slightly freaked out by the fact that he shifts his stance, his lips curling up further. _Holy shit._

Kate evaluates her options. She could avoid him for the rest of the evening and confront him later, explain to him that this is a terrible idea and _they shouldn't_ , but she doesn't really want that. All this time aggressively not thinking about the possibility that he might be interested, and there he is, proving her wrong and thereby forcing her to face the fact that _she's_ interested. 

So, nope. Kate doesn't stop flirting back. She glances his way each and every time she feels his gaze on her, smiling provocatively, and if it all goes wrong later, at least she can blame the tequila. 

 

***

 

If Kate needed anymore evidence that her tequila count for the night clocked in at _one too many_ , then Clint taking her home just to offer her the bed while he's about to excuse himself to the couch would be the final hint. She pouts at him, shakes her head so hard it makes the room tilt at its axis. “You don't have to sleep downstairs. Stay here.” 

Clint eyes her. “You're shitfaced.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” she inquires, steadfastly ignoring the nibbling knowledge that they spent the whole night overthrowing their status quo. In the morning, she might thank him for refusing to make a move on the drunk girl spread out on his bed. Right now, it's rather annoying. She pats the mattress. “Lie down. I'll behave. Don't make me feel bad for relegating you to the couch in your own home.” 

That's never been a concern before and they both know it, but Clint sighs and starts unbuttoning his jeans. 

 

***

 

In the morning, she wakes to Clint rummaging around in the bedroom. There's a glass of water and a couple of Aspirin on the nightstand, and he's got his back turned, still wearing boxers and a t-shirt. Kate yawns extensively and allows herself a few moments to appreciate the view before she sits up. He's taken his hearing aids out for the night, the telltale rim of purple missing from his ear, and she has to reach out and tap his shoulder to get his attention, wait for him to turn around and face her. “Good morning. Sleep well?” 

He sits down on the edge of the bed and says, completely straight-faced, “You kicked me in the shin while we slept. Twice.” 

Kate frowns. “I did not.” 

“You did. I got the bruises to prove it.” He jiggles his leg, but doesn't manage to keep up the game; he's so obviously suppressing laughter that Kate's a little bit worried he might explode if he bites his tongue much longer. She prods at his hip with her toes. He pins her foot down, moves as to tickle it, which has her kicking out at him; at the end of that, she's lying flat on her back, glaring at him past the arm she's holding up defensively, and he's finally given in to that barking laugh that's been building up. It's a good sound – he doesn't do that nearly often enough. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts when he's found his breath again, and Kate has no doubt the amused glint in his eyes means he’s still up to no good.

She props herself up on her elbows. “Don’t do that. Never ends well, remember?”

Clint rolls his eyes and inches a bit closer. “Did no one ever tell you it’s impolite to interrupt people? I was trying to tell you something.”

He’s grinning, but the way he holds himself, just this side of too tense, signals nervousness in big bold letters. It makes Kate’s heart beat a little faster by proxy. “Go ahead. Say what you need to say.”

“Actually.” He inclines his head and leans in, all but bumping her nose. “Maybe I’ll just demonstrate.”

His eyes fall closed, and Kate understands exactly what he’s been trying to fumble his way towards. She leans in as well, meeting him halfway. The position is awkward, the angle all wrong, and Kate senses a stiff neck in her future if they keep this up too long. But she doesn’t quite care. It’s way different from the quick peck that got all this started months ago, a slow, languid kind of kiss, and she’s dimly aware that he’s climbing on top of her, his knees bracketing her hips. They should stop. They should, indeed and for real, talk about this.

What she does instead is sneak her hands underneath his t-shirt and rake her fingers over the skin of his back, making him moan into the kiss, and she wonders how this can feel so incredibly _natural_. Sure, she's had a few months to kinda, sorta get used to idea, but it's more than that. Given all they'd risk if this doesn't work out, she should be scared, worried, uncertain. She should freak out. But none of that's happening; she tugs at the shirt to make him sit up so she can pull it off, lets her hands dance down the line of his back again, past his hips, his ass, his growing erection pressed up between them, and all she does feel is want and a strange sense of relief. 

She reaches down to wriggle out of her panties and he pulls back to look at her, wide-eyed. “You sure? We could take this slow – ” 

Kate shakes her head. “I haven't been this sure about anything since we marched into the ruins of the old Avengers Mansion and I picked up your bow.” 

He makes a noise low in his throat and blinks, and she seizes the opportunity to flip them in order to work his boxers down his legs. He kicks them off and she sits back on her heels, getting rid of her own tank top, enjoying the way his gaze travels up her body while she does the same thing to him. 

“Condom,” she demands, wraps a hand around him as an incentive, and he reaches for his nightstand, producing a wrapper and wordlessly handing it to her. Seeing as this is their first time together, she considers drawing it out – making something to remember – but she can't get past the thought of finding out what he's going to feel like inside her, what they'll feel like _together_. She rolls the condom on and straddles him, bent down so their foreheads nearly touch, and she watches every twitch of his face, savors every sound he's making while she slowly sinks down on him. 

There's a moment when neither of them moves; he's staring up at her, she's staring back, and she worries he may have picked the worst time _ever_ for second thoughts. But then he pulls her in for a messy kiss and thrusts up, and she discards conscious thought and switches to autopilot, letting their bodies do the talking. They find a quick, erratic rhythm, too needy to be elegant, and it's over far too soon. Clint fucks her through a shallow orgasm, just this side of satisfying, and follows with his face pressed into the crook of her neck. 

 

***

 

Hours later, they've relocated to the couch, each of them occupying half of it with their feet in the other's lap while watching TV, and Clint goes very still, in the way that turns a silence weighted. That's when it really hits him, Kate assumes: what they've done, and that they couldn't take it back even if they wanted to. 

“You okay?” she asks, and he does appear a bit stunned when he meets her eyes. 

“I'm better than okay. Always kinda scares me when that happens.” 

And Kate can relate; how the word _happy_ has this occasional side effect of inviting fate to fuck it all up. But not this time. Not for them. She nudges his leg with her foot. “Hey, none of that. We'll be fine. I know it, and as you may have noticed, I'm always right.” 

Clint exhales, dutifully rolling his eyes. He slides a hand up the leg of her sweat pants – well, his sweat pants, technically – and gives her a small smile. “Sure, Hawkeye. Whatever you say.”


End file.
